


tales of a cornish giant and a yorkshire warrior

by comeaftermejackrobinson, disheveledcurls



Category: BBC Career of Evil, BBC Strike, BBC The Cuckoo's Calling, BBC The Silkworm, Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: CoE Spoilers, F/M, Gen, General Series Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentions of Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of dismemberment & physical wounds (w/r to the murder investigation in CoE), mentions of rape and infidelity (in connection with Robin’s backstory), post CoE aus, post CoE spec, trigger warning for all the topics discussed or addressed by the original books & tv adaptation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeaftermejackrobinson/pseuds/comeaftermejackrobinson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls
Summary: Two stubborn detectives. A whole lot of feelings left unspoken. Whatever happens next is their call.A collection of Robin/Strike vignettes following the events ofCareer of Evil,some AU, some canon-compliant. Spoilers for the entire series so far.





	1. in my end is my beginning

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** self-harm mention, mentions of death, dismemberment and physical wounds (in relation to details of the murder investigation in _Career of Evil_ ), mentions of rape, mentions of infidelity (in connection with Robin’s backstory), post-traumatic stress disorder (in connection with both Strike's and Robin's backstories)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ch. 1 Summary:** _A man walks into a church on a bright summer day. He has not come to steal the blushing bride. He has come to see where the story goes from here. That part’s up to her._
> 
> Or, a mostly canon-compliant reimagining and continuation of that CoE cliffhanger. Mostly Robin-centric. Chapter title from T. S. Eliot’s “East Coker.” This is set immediately after the end of the third book, because you can’t dangle a cliffhanger like that in front of anxiety-ridden fans for months and months, goddamn it, Joanne. Spoiler alert for, well, the entirety of CoE. What comes after, we’re making up as we go along. Hope you enjoy!

_There is rarely any joy in a frictionless place._

from Richard Siken’s “Logic”

 

 

  

_I was the bloody alternative, standing there, right in front of her!_ Of course he had not meant it like that… Or had he? Maybe he should’ve actually talked to her instead. Bought her a drink at the Tottenham one day after work, and said, _Look, I know I have the worst timing in the world and I’m a complete tosser, and this is probably a terrible idea, but…_ A rejection would have stung, sure, but if he’d talked to her, laid before her plainly every fact, arguments he did not see how she could possibly dismiss, things he saw from the outside which she seemed oblivious to — if she had known all that, he thought she might not be making this huge fucking mistake, one it would not be easy to make right. (If she did, some day, decide to make it right.) It would have stung, yes, but not like racing into St. Mary’s, sweaty and exhausted and wounded and sleep-deprived, just in time to see her marry an even bigger tosser than himself.

***

_A man walks into her wedding and knocks down a flower arrangement, and her world stops and starts again in the space of a heartbeat. She had not realized how much she wanted him there until that moment. Didn’t they always say it was not a matter of time, but a matter of timing?_

There was a loud clattering and everyone turned around, blushing bride included, and there he was, sans the big brown coat that made him look like a walking wardrobe, or, if one had a bit of imagination, like that Cornish giant he was named after. About forty minutes late and red in the face with embarrassment or exertion, she couldn’t tell which, in that fancy Italian suit that would have made him look sharp if he weren’t so visibly unkempt and agitated. (But then it would not have been Cormoran standing there: it would have been some slick, elegant, handsome stranger.) She couldn’t be sure, but he seemed battered, too, like he’d gotten in a fistfight on his way north to Masham — and for all she knew, perhaps he had. Nothing new in that face then, nothing remarkable.

 Strange, then, that he should be the only person in the room she wanted to look at.

  _Once upon a time, there was a giant fell in love with a pious woman, who to add insult to injury happened to be married. When she grew tired of his unwanted attentions, the woman set him a challenge: Fill this hole in the mountain with your blood to prove your love for me. The giant agreed, for love, as is well known, is a bloodsport, and besides lovers are wont to do what the beloved asks. But the woman had tricked him, for this hole in the mountain led down, down through unforgiving rock to the open sea, and so the task was doomed from the start — and so was their so-called love. The giant, all too happy with what he perceived as an easy task, slit a gash on his arm and lay down to wait, for he had gallons and gallons to give. But since the hole was bottomless, he bled out on the spot. So the giant died, the woman was free, and all that remains is a red stain on grey rock. The moral? Love is a game. A curse on this game! An illusion. No one ever learns, no one ever leaves, and happy endings are hard to come by — for giants and married women alike._

 There he was, though his livid disappointment over her bravado at Brockbank’s, and the row that ensued —which incidentally ended her burgeoning career as a detective— had made her assume she would never hear from him again. He had sent her away, and she’d come up to Masham as if on autopilot, only half aware of the purpose which had brought her back to her hometown, to this particular moment, and the most incredible thing had happened, was happening right before her eyes. He had run after her.

  _A man walks into a church, stands behind the last pew and looks up at the bride like she’s personally responsible for whatever little good remains in the world —the answer to every mystifying question, justice for the righteous, Arsenal’s best seasons, and a perfect golden pint at a decent pub— and that’s when she knows. It’s like she has been falling for a year and a half, from the moment he almost pushed her down the stairs, that first day, and only now has finally hit the floor. Or like the person she was then actually did fall to her death, she contemplates, strangely grim — but then again, it has been a particularly grim couple of months. That old Masham girl, plain, scared and insecure, died at the bottom of the stairwell, and now a stranger walks in her place, looks at herself in the mirror, in the wedding dress she chose herself —”chose” and “herself”, being relative terms, of course—, and finds the reflection unrecognizable. This is not my beautiful life. And I am not this beautiful wife. What is a ghost? Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead._

He never did RSVP, but there he was anyway — her mentor, her  partner, her best friend in London. (And fuck did it hurt to admit all that was a thing of the past, now.) She felt fully aware of, and at the same time strangely detached from, the seconds ticking by, slow but undeterred, as she stared at him and tried to ascertain whether she ought to laugh, cry or sock him square in the middle of his already bruised face. There he was, trying to right the flower arrangement he had overturned and muttering furious apologies to the elderly guests around him, who regarded him with such astonishment he may as well have been a magical creature, sprung free from the pages of a storybook, albeit quite an odd, unconventional one:

  _From Cornwall, a rogue did arrive_

_In London, to be a PI;_

_He chose for a mate_

_A young Yorkshire maid;_

_Together, they did get on by._

 Then he finally, finally looked up at her, their gazes meeting over row upon row of guests sitting quietly in their assigned spots, and she immediately stood up straighter, taller, as if wanting him to see all of her, and her mouth, unruly thing, broke into the biggest shit-eating grin she had ever smiled in her entire life, let alone today. His mouth curled faintly in turn, incredulous, as his eyes asked her a question she could read clearly even from all the way at the back of the church. Dimly, over the hammering of her heart in her ears, she registered Matthew’s stony-faced fidgeting beside her, and the guests turning their attention back to the front of the church, to the minister speaking of promises, of lifelong commitments, but she only had eyes for the man who had sent her flowers crashing to the floor, for the wordless question in his unsteady, sheepish gaze.

  _Forgive me?_

 _Yes,_ Robin said under her breath, and, as the minister asked her a question — _the_ question, as it turned out— she answered, “I do,” not taking her eyes off Strike’s, wanting him to understand that moment —that answer— was theirs alone, regardless of how many eyes were fixed on them. Somehow, it worked: he visibly relaxed, grinning that crooked grin he refused to admit was Rokeby’s, winked at her and sat down, to the tangible relief of the guests around him.

 Of course it took that moment for her to realize she would have liked nothing more than to walk out on all of them, as cheesy as it sounded, to drive off into the sunset with Strike in her old Land Rover that reeked of dog and his cigarettes — hell, she’d have traded this supposedly perfect wedding to the supposedly perfect man for much less: for a boring day at the office doing paperwork, for another year of terrifying cases that ended up with Shanker saving her life, for another night of combing the pubs of London for her drunken partner — or to have one more conversation with him, no matter how inconsequential, or one more row, no matter how earth-shattering, one more chance to do whatever the hell she wanted.

  _The lady, she hailed from the North,_

_The giant, he’d been hurt before;_

_Together they shared_

_The foul and the fair;_

_They always went searching for more._

 But she had not come all the way to Masham just to run off in the spur of the moment. She would give Matthew —and their families, for that matter— what they’d signed up for, at least today. She would do what they wanted, one last time, for old times’ sake, and then… But not right now. The thrilling, lively future she had guiltily fantasized about on and off for months would have to wait. Sarah Shadlock, in her form-fitting fuchsia dress, would not yet get the chance to pounce on the poor dejected groom. Creeps who enjoyed mailing body parts to their sworn enemies would have to find their wicked fun someplace else while she sat this one out. This was one moment, she reminded herself. There would be another. There would be so much more, if she was brave enough to reach for it. And she knew, finally, that she was.

Robin rearranged her face, turned back around to face the minister and married Matthew, like she’d always said she would. 

***

 As soon as the ceremony ended and the wedding party marched outside into the pristine summer day awaiting them, Robin began to scan the crowd for the dark, disheveled figure she’d lost track of while walking back down the aisle, Matthew’s grip on her arm a little tighter than necessary, like he feared she might run off if he gave her half a chance — as if he wanted to keep her in a cage like the bird she was. It wasn’t long before she spotted Strike retreating slowly into the sun-dappled shade beneath a cluster of trees down the road. She made sure to be irreproachably polite as she excused herself and made a beeline for him, as discreetly as possible. She could feel her husband’s glowering gaze —and her mother’s slightly disappointed one— follow her as she went; she did not give a monkey’s. They were behind the times, and she didn’t have the time or the energy to explain about the old Robin, dead at the bottom of the stairwell in that old, poorly lit building in Denmark Street. She suspected they wouldn’t understand, anyway.

 ***

 Strike was leaning against a tree, cigarette in hand. In her adrenaline-fueled haste, she reached him too quickly, so for a moment she just stood there, close but not too close, speechless and a little winded, looking at him. Up close, she could see his suit really was rumpled, sweat-stained and speckled with blood; his face poorly shaven, battered and bloodied. He looked like shit, and smelt like he’d been chain-smoking in a solitary confinement cell for the last forty-eight hours. How was he not in hospital? “Are you alright?” she blurted out, instead of greeting him.

 “Oh. Hiya. Yes,” he said, uncharacteristically inarticulate. He still felt nauseous from Shanker’s driving, too little sleep and almost nothing to eat, and seeing her like this didn’t exactly steady him. (Plus that long purple scar up her arm; Christ that bloody job was gonna kill them both someday.) “Finally caught up with the Ripper,” he managed, at last, “but luckily Shanker saved my arse.”

She stared at him, trying not to let her jaw drop, and consciously fought the urge to cross-examine him for every single detail. “ _What_ ,” she demanded, as calmly as she could manage.

 Her expression must have been manic nonetheless, because he smirked a little. “A story for another day. Congratulations on the wedding,” he added, like an afterthought, hoping that his voice would not betray him. (But what was there to betray?) He gestured vaguely in the general direction of her dress. “You look very beautiful. Well, not that you usually don’t, I mean…”

 Robin rolled her eyes even as she felt a blush creeping up her neck and cheeks. “Thanks. I didn’t think you’d come.”

 His face fell at that and she read in it a guilt she did not understand. “Yeah, about that… I know last time I spoke to you I said I’d leave you alone, but I really need to—“

 “What? When did you say that?”

 His eyebrows jutted together in confusion. “Wh-what d’you mean? In my voicemail from the other day.”

 She blinked at him, puzzled. “Voicemail,” she repeated blankly. “What voicemail?”

 Just as he opened his mouth to answer, they were both startled by the voices of Matthew and Mrs. Ellacott, calling and beckoning for Robin to take her place in the family photo, as the group was being arrayed in front of the church. Robin threw them an anxious look over her shoulder, then shook her head as if dismissing some idea and turned back to him. “Look, this the wrong time and place to sort it all out.”

 “Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed quickly. “I should probably go.”

 “Yeah, I think you should,” Robin concurred, to her chagrin, well aware that it was for the best. If he stayed, she knew she’d abandon everyone and everything else to spend the whole reception rooted to his side in some quiet corner, talking about the Shacklewell Ripper and the future of their agency, or worse — she would quickly get drunk on celebratory champagne, and fall into his arms in front of everyone. The potential for catastrophe was astronomic. Best to keep her distance, for now.

 He looked guilty again then, probably mistaking her agreement for some unspoken accusation. “I’m sorry I ruined the end of the service,” he mumbled, eyes downcast.

 She held back the impulse to reach out and soothe the worry lines from his face. “You didn’t ruin anything,” she countered firmly. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you came.”

 He looked up, but remained skeptical. “Yeah?”

 “Yeah. Speaking of which, you need me to find you a way to get home to London?”

 Taken by surprise, he laughed, a precious reminder of how much she missed that sound. “Robin, it’s your bloody wedding day, stop worrying about me.”

 “Oh, sod off,” she retorted stubbornly, “do you or do you not need a ride back?”

 “I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Shanker drove me. He’s got the car waiting.”

 “ _Shanker_ ,” she echoed, like she hadn’t heard him right, then snorted a laugh. “Alright then. Give him my love will you? For all the good he’s done lately.” _Tell him I’m thankful he saved you. Tell him I’m thankful he drove you here._ Who’d have thought Shanker, of all people, would become their assigned guardian angel.

 “Will do.”

 “So—” she started, but was once again interrupted by her family’s loud voices, demanding her presence. She dipped her head in frustration, muttered a soft curse _,_ then straightened back up. “Okay look, I’ve really got to be off. Talk soon?”

 He held her gaze for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether she meant it. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

 “Alright then.” They shared a look that was truer, and more eloquent, than any words they could have used under the circumstances, and then she gave him a small smile and turned away, lifting the hem of her skirt a bit —her infamous, cream-coloured glittery spike heels then made an appearance— for the short jog back to the church, back to the man that, as of that day, had the privilege of calling himself her husband.

  _A man walks into a church on a bright summer day. It is not his own wedding, and the woman waiting inside not his to call sweetheart, much less bride-to-be. He has not come to this church in the North, after battling many foes, to steal the blushing bride, who is neither angel nor witch, nor a sweet lily of the valley waiting to be plucked. He has come to see what happens next, because his wedding gift for this woman is to let her tell the end of the story. For this woman, his companion —a trickster, a warrior, an adventurer, with battle scars and roses in her hair— deserves no less; for the story he’s been telling is in fact hers too. And so the man walks out of the old church as empty-handed as he came in, but far more sure-footed and content. For he has completed his mission, and the story will resume._

 For a moment that seemed to stretch lazily into forever, Strike quietly watched her scamper back to her groom and family, ungraceful and lovely, her long hair glinting like spun gold. She was alive; she would be happy; there was still a chance that he could make things right. 

 He felt the luckiest man in the world.

 There still was time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line “This is not my beautiful life. And I am not this beautiful wife” is a paraphrase of two verses from the famous Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime.” The lines "Love is a game. A curse on this game!” and “What is a ghost? Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead” are taken from Jeanette Winterson’s _Written on the Body_ and Richard Siken’s “Landscape with Fruit Rot and Millipede”, respectively. Apologies if the characters don’t sound quite as British as they should. Relatedly, we've made a Robin/Strike playlist which you can find here: https://open.spotify.com/user/11146678185/playlist/1X7tFG7ahkXmHrImfp5oJQ  
>  Sources for the legends about Cornish giants mentioned and retold in the chapter can be found here: https://www.transceltic.com/cornish/cormoran-cornish-giant-and-jack-giant-killer  
> http://www.cornishlinks.co.uk/history-giants.htm  
> https://www.cornwalls.co.uk/myths-legends/giants.htm


	2. in my beginning is my end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self-preservation is a hard habit to kick, but an unexpected turn of events forces Strike to question if he really can go on fooling himself any longer.
> 
> Set shortly after the events of Ch. 1. Strike POV.

 

_once, once is enough to break you._

_once, once is enough to make you_

_think twice_

_about laying_

_your little love out on the line._

 

**laura marling, “once”**

 

After the wedding, she wrote him a letter. He got it on an infuriatingly humid late July morning, while she was off in the Caribbean on her honeymoon, and he did a double-take when he understood what he was holding in his hands, a long page and a half covered in the neat, clear, large curlicues of Robin’s handwriting:

  _Cormoran:_

_I’m writing this because I wanted to talk to you. You and I are not finished, or, at least, if we are, I’d like to get some things off my chest. I know you’re mad, but please let me say this. First off, you should know I had no idea you had left me a voicemail, after our fight. That’s why I was so confused when you mentioned it. It turns out Matt took my phone and deleted it before I could see it, and then blocked your number. I only realized because I noticed our call history had been erased, and remembered Matt had asked for my passcode a few days before the wedding. When I pressed him, he confessed._

Strike let out an admiring whistle at that — this would have been an incredibly painful thing to realize about someone you had just married, and even more painfully awkward to admit to somebody else. Robin had her pride and could be deeply stubborn; confronting her new husband, whom she had always thought could do her no harm, with newfound evidence that he could and he had must have been hard. He read on:

  _The worst part was, I wasn’t even that surprised. Naturally, we’re over for good_

Strike had to stop and make sure he had read that right. Once he’d checked that sentence wasn’t an optical illusion, he resumed reading:

_Naturally, we’re over for good —not only over this little incident, I have my reasons—, but I haven’t told him yet. I’m hoping if I wait some time — until we’re back in London and a bit more settled, maybe, it will soften the blow. At least a little._

Strike snorted incredulously. He couldn’t imagine Matthew —or anyone, for that matter— taking this kind of news well. It would _not_ go smoothly, but of course she would try to do right by someone who didn’t even deserve it, who had always done the bare minimum. Hadn’t Strike himself been on the receiving end of her compassion and kindness, and wasn’t he abjectly grateful? He would not begrudge her doing the same for her soon-to-be ex-husband. In fact, starting now, it might be a good idea, he decided, to try not to begrudge her anything. He read on:

  _I won’t go back to detective work right away… not that I’m assuming you’d re-hire me. I’m thinking about taking a job that pays better —no offense— for a year at least, save up enough to go back to uni and finish my degree. Or maybe I’ll even take up Wardle on his offer. I want to do all the things I should have, from the beginning. I think I owe it to myself. I thought I was free but I wasn’t, not really — I let that bastard in the mask take my life from me. He made me afraid, and then my friends, my family, Matt, the only way they knew how to help was to cut me down to size, make me a life so small, so… sheltered, nothing like that would ever touch me again. And I was so afraid and so hurt I believed them. I gave up everything I wanted, everything, but I’m gonna get it now, if it’s the last thing I’ll do. I hope you’ll help me. I hope there’s a place in your life for this ‘new and improved’ version of me, if not as a business partner then at least as a friend. But I won’t lie, I want that partnership back, too. What it meant to me, I can hardly put into words._

Strike abruptly stopped reading. In a couple of brisk paces, he closed the door, went back to the sofa, sat down heavily (nevermind the farting noises, he didn’t notice those anymore), and wept. Openly, shakily, with his head in his hands, like he hadn’t since he was a child. (Not that he had been one for crying fits even back then, not around carefree, thrill-seeking Leda, who, for all her compassion, could hardly understand her clever, sensitive, quiet child.) His phone was buzzing on the table, some client probably, at this hour, but he could not bring himself to care; all he felt was pride and grief for the woman who had written him these lines. People would’ve found it ridiculous, he knew full well, to see him crying over a cheesy, handwritten letter from _some girl_ who’d only worked for him for a year and a half. _You were in the army, for fuck’s sake, mate. Man up! Who the fuck even writes letters anymore?_ But he wasn’t an actual walking closet, or some mythical creature unaffected by human affairs; the feelings that now shook him were as real as the emptiness where his missing leg should be, and people, honestly, had no fucking clue what they were talking about. When his vision cleared enough, he read on:

  _Which brings me to the main point I have to make in this very rambl-y, unimpressive letter_. He smiled at that. _I have to apologize. I know that I fucked up with the Brockbank thing, with Zahara and Angel. I know I jeopardized your reputation and the business we worked so hard to build, as well as my own safety, and I know you were trying to protect me and I should’ve done as you said. I’m sorry about all that_. _I let this case get to me. I flattered myself that I was stronger than I am, that I could handle it. The truth is, stuff like what happened to me… it never really goes away. That’s what I’d never tell Matt, or my parents: that it never leaves you, no matter what you do, or how much you try, to convince yourself it was all just a bad dream, that the bogey man’s left you alone for good. If I’m gonna be a detective, that’s always gonna haunt me. It’s gonna be part of what I bring to the table. I understand that now. I accept it. But maybe I wasn’t honest enough about that to you, or even to myself. So. I apologize. And I understand if this means we can never work together again_.

  _But I also have to tell you when you fired me, I was really, really mad. In case you couldn’t tell._ Oh, he could tell, loud and clear. _Not just mad — I was gutted. I’m telling you this because if I keep it in, I will never really forgive you, and I don’t want that. You and I both deserve a fresh start. You have to know that what you did hurt like hell._

Strike braced himself for what came next. He hoped it was brutal, full of expletives and rightful arguments. He deserved nothing less, and part of him even wanted the sting, the punishment, of reading, with his own eyes, as much of the awful truth as she was capable of putting down on paper. He had attempted an apology on that infamous voicemail but of course she had not heard it, and anyway it would not have been enough. With a lump in his throat and his stomach twisting itself into knots, he focused on the letter once more:

  _You could’ve suspended me instead; you could’ve found a better way to tell me; you could’ve waited until after the wedding, I don’t know — there were a million proper ways to have that conversation, and you chose none of them. I was scared and helpless and lonely, reliving my worst memories all over again and I couldn’t bloody well talk to Matt or Mum about it, they were so obsessed with the wedding, and instead of helping, you came and took from me the only thing I had left, the job I loved. Worse, you took away my choice. It was supposed to be my choice whether to stay or leave — partners, remember? Instead, you made the call, and shut me out. Honestly, I think if you’d slapped me across the face it would have hurt less. (Scars and bruises fade, as I’m sure you know. Words are forever.) You made me feel about two inches tall. That’s it. Now you know, and we can both move on._

There was nothing to say. Her words took root in him like a thorn in his side, like a different kind of chronic pain to carry around for the rest of his life, and he accepted it without complaint. It was only fair. (How could he have left like that when she needed him most? How was he any better than Matthew? How could he have fucked up so royally, disappointing not just Robin’s expectations, but also his own?)

_So. That’s the situation. I hope you’re reading this; I hope you didn’t throw it in the bin unopened, or gave up halfway through. If you’re wondering why the fuck I wrote you a letter instead of calling, and I guess I should’ve started on that, it’s because I know you hate me blubbering in front of you like a silly cow, and I know I would cry if I told you this in person, or even over the phone. It’s hard as it is writing it down. Besides, I think it may be best to keep our distance for a while, until the air’s cleared up. Also, you’re the one that was ranting about the lost art of letter writing that time you were knackered, so don’t you dare complain now._

 Strike laughed at that, short but genuine, and hurried over the last few lines.

  _Please let’s speak soon, though. Leave a message —promise I’ll hear it this time— or write me an email or text me, whatever. I’ll miss you loads if you don’t. But I think you will get in touch with me. I believe there’s a bright future out there waiting for us, and I know you’re brave enough to go for it. I will try to be, too. I’m already trying. _

_Here’s to that._

_Robin._

Strike folded the piece of paper in two and put it in his trouser pocket and then, worried it would get rumpled or stained, reconsidered, took it out and slid it into a desk drawer for safekeeping, until he figured something out. If it’d been winter, he could’ve put it in the inside pocket of his coat, next to his heart, and carried it around all day like some people carry rosaries or good luck charms. But the winter was a distant memory, and his coat was in the closet, gathering dust.

 He went back to the sofa and sat there, alone and silent, his face still wet and his breath uneven. What was he going to do? Reread the letter over and over again, memorize it until it was as his as any of his memories or any given droplet of his blood? Or should he buy a plane ticket, like in the movies, and go after her, travelling across an ocean and two continents to say… _What? You idiot. What would you even say?_ He chuckled bitterly at the absurdity of such a fantasy. _A man travels far and wide to interrupt a wedding and then, like that’s not enough, follows the bride to yet another land to interrupt her honeymoon. The audacity, indeed! Why, but this man, you see, this ridiculous, ungainly, sweaty man stranded in a Caribbean hotel lobby, pleading to be allowed to see a woman who isn’t his wife, convinced that if he doesn’t see her face just once more, just to say he’s sorry, he will actually drop dead, why, that man deserves a second chance, and if she just—_  But he would never do that. That wasn’t him.

  _That isn’t us._

What, then, could he give, that would be welcome? What could he do that could possibly be enough? Before he could help himself he’d already fished his phone out of his pocket and begun to compose a text message, trying out sentences, one after the other, revising them, rewording them… Not one of them managed to get the sour taste of helplessness out of his mouth. He deleted everything. He would not press _send_. He had to be able to come up with something better. There was still time.

 He read the letter once more, that night, before getting into bed. He didn’t feel like crying anymore, he just felt empty, and at the same time filled with some unspeakable longing. He rolled onto his back, a heavy sigh filling the otherwise quiet room, and couldn’t help recalling the last time he had lost sleep over something other than a case. _Charlotte_. During his sixteen years on and off with her, insomnia had been a regular part of his daily life, one he’d systematically refused to acknowledge had anything to do with her. It was always the cases, or the money problems, or Leda’s mysterious death, or the PTSD from his army days, but never his girlfriend, no sir. Not Charlotte, his love, his torment; not her fickleness and her bad temper; not their fights, shouting matches, slammed doors, her promises of _Never again, Bluey, I swear. I mean it this time, my love._ If he could have admitted that she was giving him such levels of anxiety, what else would he have been forced to admit? That part of him feared her? That her excuses were transparent? That her word was worth less than the filthy, second-hand bachelor’s mattress he now lay on? That deep down he had never believed her, and so everything she’d put him through was actually his own fault? It was unbearable. No wonder he had lied to himself for so long.

 This had to be different. It _was_ different — it ran deeper. But self-preservation still pulled so strongly. The night he met Charlotte Campbell was so far in the past now it could’ve been just a bad dream, and Robin and Charlotte were as different as night was from day, and he was wiser now, and completely certain that these new feelings would not, _could not,_ lead him astray… and still there he was, lying in bed in the dark in the small hours, fidgeting, searching for excuses like a fool.

  _Enough._ He was annoyed with himself now. He’d make a decision in the morning, he vowed. But the cool light of dawn found him awake still, and with no answers to show for it. Then somewhere in his head a sharp, distinctive laugh was heard. Not any laugh. A woman’s. And not any woman. _The_ woman.

  _Oh, Bluey, you’re fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken, once again, from T. S. Eliot’s wonderful “East Coker.” For the sake of brevity, we won’t reiterate all the trigger warnings each time around, but if anything triggers you and you’d like us to change the rating or add another warning tag, please let us know. As always, be advised that this contains spoilers for the entirety of _Career of Evil._ Also, we’re writing and proofreading all this ourselves, so any mistakes or inaccuracies are our own. Thanks for the early reviews -- hope you enjoy this one as well!


	3. holding back the flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike doesn’t know what to do about Robin’s letter. Thank goodness Ilsa Herbert always sees right through him.
> 
> Set shortly after the events of Ch. 2. Strike POV.

_Suppose I say summer,_

_write the word “hummingbird,”_

_put it in an envelope,_

_take it down the hill_

_to the box. When you open_

_my letter you will recall_

_those days and how much,_

_just how much, I love you._

**Raymond Carver, “Hummingbird”**

It takes days. He reads the letter over and over, poring over every detail, analyzing it as he would a complicated case file (the only difference being, this is far more personal than any case he’s ever worked.) But then one night he goes over to Nick and Ilsa’s for dinner, and as reluctant as he is to discuss something so sensitive with anyone, he cannot resist turning to Ilsa for advice, since she is the Athena of his own personal cosmology, the one person who always knows what to do. It happens after dinner, while Nick does the washing up, and Strike and Ilsa are sitting outside at the Herberts’ stylish little garden table, enjoying the night breeze. Ilsa brings up the future of the agency and Strike tries, not very effectively, to foreground only the professional, practical implications of Robin’s absence. Ilsa is, of course, very good at asking questions, and he’s drunk enough that he cannot be bothered to be so guarded among old friends. (Or maybe it’s got less to do with his alcohol intake and with Ilsa’s ability to make him open up, and more to do with his need to talk about this before he explodes.)

 When she demands to know exactly why and how the breakdown happened, he spills the whole story, and when she asks whether he has any plan to get his partner back, all he can muster is, “Truth is, I’m scared, Ilsa. Don’t really know what to do.” Immediately after it comes out, he regrets it. Childish. Embarrassing. He’s thirty-six years old, for fuck’s sake, not some schoolboy with a crush. Still, he immediately feels some measure of relief to have said it out loud.

 Ilsa, thankfully, does not mock him. She gives him a long, owlish, knowing look from behind her spectacles, and then says kindly, “Of course you’re scared. She won’t leave.”

 It takes him a moment. First he thinks he can’t have heard her right. All that bloody Arran; he’s not too sharp at the moment. “What?”

 “She won’t leave you,” Ilsa repeats, softly, but firmly, like she can’t believe she’s got to explain this to him. She leans back in her chair. “She plays no games with you. Charlotte would come and go, that was one escape. Other girls you’ve been with, it was just temporary, so that’s another way out. Oh please, don’t insult my intelligence,” she’s quick to add, when he opens his mouth to deny it. “Those women were too different, they didn’t want to stick around. _You_ didn’t want _them_ to stick around, am I correct?” Of course she was. “But Robin does. And so do you.”

 Strike blinks at his friend, appalled at her accuracy. When did he get so transparent? He clears his throat nervously. “Oh, so you’re Sigmund bloody Freud now,” he retorts, entirely unprepared to have this conversation. “Spare me the speech about commitment phobia; I’ve heard it before.”

 “Don’t be such a prick, Corm. I’m trying to help you,” she says, her tone only a decibel more commanding than it is sweet —there’s the lawyer taking over—, but it’s enough.

 He straightens up, shamefaced, to look at her properly. She’s taken her glasses off and is rubbing two fingers down the bridge of her nose and in circles around her closed eyes. She looks so tired — it can’t be his fault but he’s not helping, it seems.  It’s with a sharp jab of guilt that he realizes he’s seen the same look on Robin’s face on his account. He’d just chosen not to admit it was his doing. Always better to blame her prick of a fiancé, with his athletic beauty and impeccable suit, and the responsible job that pays the bills and the misogynistic ways. Always better to ignore that the boundaries Strike had worked so hard to build between their personal and professional relationships were, for the most part, a figment of his imagination. “Sorry,” he mumbles, fiddling with the hem of the table cloth for want of something to do. He’s not sure who he’s _really_ apologizing to. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

 Ilsa sighs, opens her eyes and folds her arms against her chest. “Honestly, mate, I know you’re used to being this...” She trails off, eyes widening comically as she seems to rummage in her brain for the right words. She puffs out her chest and cheeks, adopting a pose that makes Strike think of a cartoon gorilla. “This six-foot-three, military-trained, totally self-sufficient James Bond type, but you’ve got to let people in sometimes.”

 Strike chuckles, genuinely amused. “James Bond’s a dickhead,” he protests. “Is that what you really think of me?” Ilsa’s fractional hesitation makes him laugh again. “Ouch. Thanks for your honesty.”

 “Well, no, of course not,” she amends quickly. “You’re not James Bond and you’re not a dickhead. It’s just, sometimes it feels like you wish you were and that’s silly, because you are so much better than that cliché _macho_ bullshit, Corm, honestly.” She leans forward, bracing herself on the table, her eyes intent, urgent on his. “Honestly,” she repeats. “You are. You’re an extraordinary person and a bloody good man.”

 He raises a skeptical eyebrow, but his mouth quirks into a small smile. “That’s a bit much, but thanks.”

 “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head.”

 There’s a brief silence and then she’s laughing quietly, shoulders shaking a little as she turns her face to the side and covers her mouth with one hand. He takes another sip of whiskey, even though he really shouldn’t at this point, and watches in confusion. “What’s so funny?”

 “This,” she says. “You.” He opens his mouth to complain, but she raises her left hand feebly to silence him and goes on, “I’m sorry. Don’t mind me. Don’t… _rush_ into anything, especially if she’s not ready.”

 He nods in agreement and keeps watching her, trying to read her face. He knows her too well not to suspect she’s holding something back. “But?”

 She throws her head back, eyes cast to the ceiling, and sighs again, as if inconvenienced that he’s turning the tables on her, fishing for the truth, or maybe just annoyed at his inability to grasp something she seems to see quite plainly. “From what you’ve told me,” she says carefully, “it seems like Robin’s decided to stay with you, or… or come back to you, I suppose, as soon as she can sort her own life out.”

 He keeps his expression deliberately even. “Okay. So?”

 “ _So_ ,” Ilsa echoes, a tad more emphatically, “are you going to let her? Or are you going to keep her at arms’ length like you did all the others?” _Like you’ve been trying to do with her, too, from day one. Remember how relieved you felt when you saw that engagement ring on her finger?_ When he does not respond, she presses him further: “She’s made her choice. Now you have to make yours.”

 He nods, holding her gaze and absorbing her outline of his circumstances, which certainly makes it all sound a lot simpler than the hulking mess he’s been trying to grapple with for days — hell, for a year and a half, if he’s being completely honest. “Food for thought,” he says at last, raising his whiskey as if toasting her. Ilsa smiles warmly and clinks her glass with his.

 “Right, sorry to ruin the moment,” Nick says, from the doorway, startling them both, “but, er… match is starting any minute, mate, you coming?”

 Ilsa rolls her eyes. “Men,” she scoffs, as she pushes herself off her chair. “I’ll leave you to it.”

 “Good talk,” Strike says apologetically, as he rises in turn and they head inside.

 She pats him on the shoulder and then kisses her husband briefly on her way past him to the stairs. “Try not to be too loud, yeah? Some of us actually look forward to sleeping.”

 Strike and Nick both promise to behave, and she swiftly disappears off to the first floor. Strike does not think about anything that isn’t Arsenal for the rest of the evening.

 But the next day, as he lies in bed, remembering what Ilsa said, thumbing it over this way and that in his head, with the white light of dawn on his face, he starts to reflect on a specific line in Robin’s letter, the one where she brings up his complaints about the “lost art of letter writing.” It should be surprising that she remembers that, and yet it isn’t at all. Robin always listens. She always looks at people as if what they have to say is worthy of being heard — as if they’re _someone_ , regardless of whether they’re a call girl working a corner or a posh business tycoon crying over their cheating partner and proffering ridiculous amount of cash to find out what they’re up to. Robin cares to a fault, until it hurts, and once she’s healed up (if that happens), she does it all over again. And somehow, she is the strongest person he’s ever met.

 Still, he’s not about to pour his heart out in some letter… The effort alone would do his head in. Then why can’t he get this ridiculous, half-formed plan out of his head? Why is it that his hand itches to pick up a pen and just tell her everything? 

 It’s on his way back from a surveillance job that he sees it, half-hidden in the postcard racks outside a shop. He knows these souvenirs are meant to attract newcomers, not people like Robin or himself, who know London like the back of their hand by now. But he can’t help himself and he buys her one anyway, a beautiful photo of the evening sun setting down on this old, wicked city they call home. The photo depicts a random, nondescript street, no tourist-y landmarks in sight. He knows he’s a snob to like that, but he does. He thinks Robin will, too.

 He doesn’t write anything on it right away. He lets it sit on his desk for a couple of hours, keeping his distance, as if afraid that the blank space will trick him into some sort of  uncensored confession. It’s late when the words begin to take shape in his mind. He’s already in bed when it hits him. He knows what he wants to say. Most importantly, he now knows _how_ he wants to say it. Of all the words the English language has to offer, he’s found the ones that will hopefully set things right with Robin.

 All he has to do is write them down.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from “The Flood” by Take That. As always, be advised that this contains spoilers for the entirety of _Career of Evil._ Also, we’re writing and proofreading all this ourselves, so any mistakes or inaccuracies are our own. Enjoy!


	4. a glorious bite of the whole world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike writes. Robin calls. Everything that gets said is just the tip of the iceberg. It’s enough for now. 
> 
> Set shortly after the events of Ch.3. Robin POV, then Strike’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from “You Could Be Happy” by Snow Patrol. As always, be advised that this contains spoilers for the entirety of _Career of Evil_. Also, we’re writing and proofreading all this ourselves, so any mistakes or inaccuracies are our own.

_there's progress now_  
_where there once was none,_  
_where there once was none,_  
_then everything came along._

**take that, “the flood”**

 

On her first day at her new job —boring HR work at the same advertising firm she turned down a year and a half ago, but it’s enough to keep her husband thinking nothing’s wrong, and to start saving for her future—, she gets delivered a small envelope to her grey little cubicle. Her stomach drops on instinct and her paranoia tells her to run like hell. (Where would she run, though? It’s not like she has a partner waiting somewhere with a steaming teacup and calm reassurances. Not anymore.) But the jagged, ugly handwriting on the envelope looks familiar. Bravely, she opens it up to find a cheap postcard of the evening sun setting down on the city, warm and glorious, and on the back, in Strike’s hand —for it is indeed his hand, and the black ink of the fountain pen she bought him herself, half-jokingly, months and months ago _, So your signature on paperwork will look more official, don’t you think?_ —, a few scribbled lines. On the right side —of all things— a short poem:

_There once was a warrior from Yorkshire,_

_She never did feel very posh here;_

_So brave and so fair,_

_With golden-red hair,_

_That smart little lady from Yorkshire._

 

 Robin covers her mouth with a hand and lets out a startled, tremulous laugh that raises a few eyebrows among her co-workers; she does not care. It’s the last thing she’d expect from him, and that makes it exquisite. She reads the text on the left-hand side:

  _Robin,_

_Yeah, that’s really lousy, isn’t it? That’s my Oxford education put to good use then. In all seriousness, I’m really glad we could talk a bit after the wedding. And I’ve been thinking about your letter for days. I’m so sorry for everything. I want to make things right between us, so you tell me where we go from here._

_XX  Cormoran._

 

It’s more than she was hoping for since she sent her own letter. Pushing past her excitement —he was never supposed to write back, or at least not like this— and her trepidation —what would her husband say if he found out?—, Robin rereads the message over and over, committing to memory every last word and ink smudge. It stays with her all day, even when she tries to distract herself with work or the newest issue of a psychology journal she recently subscribed to. Her mind keeps returning to the letter like a hamster running in circles. What is she going to do?

The truth, she’s been told more than once, is supposed to set you free. It’s a nice sentiment, but not an easy one to put into practice. If she really comes clean about everything, strips her life of every falsehood and insincere commitment, what will be left? Where will she be?

Robin has no answer to that question, but she does have an answer for Strike. She knows what to do next.

***

 That night, before going to bed, Strike checks his inbox and finds an email from Robin waiting, dated from that afternoon. The subject simply says: _Let’s talk._ His heart quickening in his chest, he clicks the message open. The first thing he sees is a short poem, not unlike the ones he’d been improvising on his black leather-bound notebook, among interview notes, case-related observations, and sordid details, a little out of boredom, a little out of longing for his missing partner. Robin’s reads:

 

_There once was a lady named Robin,_

_Upset and a little heartbroken;_

_But while on the mend_

_She made a new friend:_

_A giant from Cornwall named Cormoran._

 

When he gets to the end, Strike lets out a loud bark of genuine laughter. After much internal deliberation, he sent his response on the postcard he’d bought, silly limerick and all, figuring it was the least he could do to return her courtesy, and also because she was right and he _was_ a bit of a romantic at heart, and also, most truthfully, because it had only been three weeks and he was already tired of missing her and maybe he was a wee bit hungover at the time so it had seemed this wonderful, original idea. But afterwards, sobered up and reconsidering, he spent quite a bit of time castigating himself for the decision. A grown man, sending his former business partner a postcard with a silly poem he’d written himself! After everything they’d been through, really? He began to think he’d made a terrible mistake: she would hate it, think it a mockery of her letter that by implication trivialized her very sound reasoning and her feelings, or worse, misconstrue it as some kind of horrifically ill-timed romantic advance… But it seems as if his concerns were unfounded. Relieved, he quickly goes over the few lines Robin typed beneath the poem:

 

_Cormoran,_

_Can’t say my poetic skills are any better than yours, can I? Haven’t done any creative writing since uni. Anyway, thank you so much for your little letter. It was so nice to hear from you._

_You asked me what you can do. And I think you can start by telling me how it ended with the Ripper. The papers aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know.._

_Talk to you later then._

_XX Robin._

 

The time on his cellphone is 11:11. Robin is  probably asleep, keeping regular hours, as she is no longer a detective, and she has work in the morning. Still, he can’t let the day end, as it were, without acknowledging her email, so he sends her a quick text: _Sorry just saw yr email, we can talk abt it anytime_ . He sets the phone down on the bedside table and sits down to take off his trousers. It buzzes only a moment later, when he stands up to drape them over the back of a chair. He picks it up at once, surprised and curious, and reads: _Hey, now’s a good time if you’re up for it_ . He can’t help grimacing a little in disbelief. Before he can write back, his phone buzzes again. It rings three times before he can react properly, as he stands there in the dark, trouser-less, staring unfocusedly at the screen now flashing the words **call from robin** , the whole moment clouded in a sense of deep unreality.

“Uh… hello?”

“Hey. Sorry, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Robin speaks quietly into the phone, like she’s trying not to wake up a sleeping spouse, but Strike suspects she would not be making the call unless she was alone. He strictly forbids himself from imagining Matthew in the background of this conversation, snoring and drooling on the pillow next to her, a picture of domesticity. It would be too painful, and too pathetic, to feel jealous of the likes of Matthew Cunliffe.

“No, it’s fine,” Strike reassures her, putting the phone on speaker while he finishes undressing and tidying up after himself — as far as that tiny shoebox of a bedroom can be tidied up, anyway, everything always falling on top of everything else. He really needs to see about moving someplace better as soon as he can afford it. “Just finishing up for the day.”

“That’s good.” There’s a pause and he can almost picture her thinking, the shrewd look on her face when she adds, “You weren’t expecting me to call, were you.”

His mouth quirks into a small semblance of a smile. “Can you blame me? You should be asleep. You have a serious job now, Ms. Ellacott.”

_And a serious life I’m not a part of. Not that I have anything better to offer._

She laughs, but it’s a brief, self-contained little thing, with none of the joy or pride he remembers. “Oh, so you have a monopoly on the night, now. The new Batman, are you.”

“Well, I do have a Robin…”

 _Past tense, mate,_ he’s reminded by a voice in his head that sounds a lot like Ilsa’s.  

Robin’s answer brings him back to the present moment. “Oh sod off,” she says, her voice now colored with genuine amusement.

Is it his doing, that change in her tone? Is it wrong to feel proud of it? He huffs out a chuckle and can’t resist teasing her a bit more. “What? I’m nearly there, just missing the suit.”

“There’s your next birthday present.”

“Christ, no.” He sits down, pulls up the covers loosely, and turns the speaker mode off, pressing the phone to his ear. There’s something about talking to Robin on the phone while he’s in bed — but he’s decidedly not going to go down _that_ particular rabbit hole. He does know, however, that he doesn’t feel guilty. “I just meant, I only stay up this late because the job requires a certain amount of gallivanting about town after people who go out late, but you don’t have to.”

“I know.” After a short silence, she elaborates, “I’m coming in late tomorrow. They’re giving me flexible hours and all that. And Matt’s gone off to some company retreat and won’t be back ‘till Sunday… and I can’t sleep.”

 _She’s calling because he’s away. Because he won’t know._ He hums a sound of acknowledgment. “So you decided the tale of the Shacklewell Ripper was a suitable bedtime story?”

“Ugh,” she complains, in that tone of disgust that’s typically accompanied by a grimace, “no, not exactly. It’s just, like I said. I _need_ to know. And…” She trails off and then adds, “And I miss talking to you.”

Taken aback, Strike hesitates. It takes courage to say something like that to someone you are rightfully angry at, especially with no prompting, in the middle of a fairly prosaic conversation. It takes even more courage to say it to someone like him, a man who often took pride in being emotionally detached. She could have lied, made up a thousand believable excuses with that quick wit of hers, but she chose, as usual, genuine emotion over empty gestures. With his heart beating almost painfully in his chest, Strike admits, “I miss it too.” Anything less would have been a lie and a betrayal and a cruelty.

 _It? Really, mate? Not her?_ There’s Ilsa’s voice again; it’s getting annoying how right she is.

“Well, alright then,” Robin says after a moment, clearly expectant. “Tell me everything.”

Strike leans back against the headboard, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, throws an arm above his head, and begins. They talk for the better part of an hour and then, her curiosity satisfied, part ways amicably with plans to speak again soon. Once the call ends, Strike falls asleep immediately for the first time in years, lazy smile dancing at the corner of his mouth, and dreams of a soothing nothingness.

***

_There once was a robin in white,_

_Who suddenly had to take flight;_

_She wrote a long letter_

_That made it all better_

_And all that was wrong, set to right._

 

When he wakes up the following morning, the words are waltzing in and out of his mind already, fully-formed, chasing after his every step as he rolls out of bed and takes to the streets, having decided to buy himself a proper breakfast for a change. He takes his notebook with him, as well as the fountain pen Robin gifted him, and as soon as he takes a seat, he writes it all down. While he merrily eats his full English, he spends the better part of an hour simply contemplating the brand-new poem, whose words seem to dance on the page with an invisible music of their own.

Strike briefly considers buying another postcard for his message, but in the end, he decides to do something simpler, quicker. Less romantic, that’s what he needs. More casual. He sends Robin an email. Attached is a snapshot of his leather-bound notebook, open to the exact same page he’s been writing on. _I woke up thinking of you_ would be an inappropriate cliché, but this, he decides, this will do. In the body of the email, he writes:

_Our conversation last night gave me loads to think about. I’m glad we talked. I came up with this poem afterwards. (Let’s be generous and call it a poem, shall we?) I wanted to share it with you, so here it is._

He presses _send_ before he can re-read or indeed regret his words. He’s made his choice and the truth is that, when it comes to Robin’s presence in his life, Strike simply can’t and won’t regret a minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Hey everybody! We're back! Thanks for being patient with us. We'll try to update more regularly in future.  
> 2\. We’d like to clarify that we’d already been working on this chapter and a few other ones that will follow a few weeks before _Lethal White_ came out, so any similarities to what happens in the book are purely coincidental. That being said, we’re not ruling out _Lethal White_ AUs in future chapters, since our writing process has not been completed yet. For now, we’re just letting the story take us where it will.  
>  3\. Fun fact: the song we chose for the opening section of this chapter is the one Robin and Cormoran listen to in _The Silkworm_ when they go on their first road trip together. We think the lyrics Robin pays attention to while she’s driving still fit their relationship perfectly, especially after the fourth book. Enjoy!


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